Disasterpiece
by Raven Blanchard
Summary: Jaded and apathetic, Hoshino Akira hardly thinks it matters that this... "reality" she is unceremoniously reborn into is confined within pages of black and white, a concoction of the rather imaginative mind of a Japanese man with a nearly perverted obsession with paranoia disorders and Sherlock Holmes. After all, she has already died. Death is an eye opener like that. (SI OC)
1. Dissociation

.

 **ONE**

 **Dissociation**

* * *

It's difficult to form solid opinions about human principles such as morality or ethics or jurisprudence, when reality itself is up for debate. For what does it matter if it is right for a woman to kill the man who had raped her, what does it matter if what _anyone_ does is right, really, when it's very much possible that none of it's real? That nothing in the world is real — not your past experiences, not your bonds and relationships, not even _yourself_. The transitory nature of reality, Hoshino Akira thinks, invalidates rules and laws and the supposed lines between right and wrong, and pondering these things is a useless and ultimately pointless endeavor.

It's a damn good intellectual exercise though. Thinking about the differences between good and bad, in a world where none of that shit matters. Where nothing matters. It's strangely freeing, because as she watches the news on television and sees the "Bizarre Prison Deaths" report, she thinks about all these people in the country watching the news... she thinks of how they're feeling all sorts of emotions ranging from violent outrage to smug glee, and how they're all going nuts wondering how this unknown person is possibly killing criminals with heart attacks, and none of it can touch her because _none of it matters_. Not the culprit — the recently dubbed _Kira_ — not the victims, not the masses, not the police. Nothing matters. _Especially_ not the the hypothetical distinction between "right" and "wrong".

Nothing matters, because nothing's real.

And it doesn't bother her at all. In fact, she thinks it's funny, in that strange detached sort of way she now perceives all things. _Imaginary laws for potentially imaginary people and things_ — she can't help but think that there's some twisted sort of poetry in it. The truth that nothing matters, in her opinion, doesn't matter at all. Not to her, at least.

She eyes the red box on her table, thinks about the possible ramifications of what she has just done — of what she is about to do — and decides that just like everything else, they too matter not on the grand scale of things.

There is no "grand scale of things".

She opens the box. Slips on some latex gloves.

"Hello there," she whispers dully at the object inside the box.

Akira takes the object into her gloved hands and runs the pads of her fingers across its surface, feeling its strange velvety texture even through the thin layer of rubber.

She frowns. "You look uglier in person."

The Death Note doesn't react.

* * *

 **A/N: Finally! My Death Note muse is alive, and I am now a proud writer of one (1) chapter of one (1) Death Note fanfic! Words cannot explain just how accomplished I feel right now. Even if, you know, it's just over 400 words long (or _short_?). Inspirations for this fic are _Metempsychosis_ by Mirthful-Malady , and _God of the Machine_ by The Carnivorous Muffin , and _Sayu Yagami_ by jokergirl2001.**


	2. The Impressionist: Prelude

**Two**

 **The Impressionist: Prelude**

* * *

The sun is shining bright the moment fifteen-year-old Hirano Ginta falls off his swivel chair, his body limp, his lifeless eyes wide as if he has just seen a ghost. It is 8-o'-clock in the morning, the second hand of the thrift store-bought watch on his wrist having just struck right on the hour, when he takes his last breath with nary a scream nor a thought.

(In his defense, it's a bit hard to think clear enough to _scream_ when you're so suddenly _dying_.)

In the background, the faint buzz of Mizuki Nana's cloying voice emanates from the new, cherry-red Audio Technica headphones Ginta has spent two months skipping meals to save up for. It falls with his head, the left half shattering into pieces as it bears the brunt of the boy's sudden tumble to his death.

Not that any of that matters, his murderer thinks.

(Actually, Ginta's murderer does not think about him at all, which is rather the point.)

Ginta will remain unremembered, an unsung victim of an experiment (or a "crime," whatever, his murderer has long since given up on the semantics of a language that isn't even universal). Everybody around the world cries and moans and screams about the subjective thing that is "justice," everybody is too busy either lamenting or rejoicing the deaths of convicted criminals worldwide, nobody would think twice about a boring old Japanese teenager. Nobody would think it strange that this seemingly normal, seemingly healthy boy, has just died of a heart attack, seemingly out of nowhere, seemingly with no medical cause. Nobody would think his death mysterious at all. Or significant. Or even in any way interesting.

(Humans are such sensationalist creatures, his murderer thinks.)

People would stumble upon his name in the obituaries on the morning paper, sip some more tea (and remember that they need to buy more from the nearest convenience store, they're running a bit low on the stuff), and go on with their lives. Walk their kids to school. Do their daily morning ablutions before dressing up for work. So many people die every day, and nothing provides quite as much distance from the fact than it being said through small, nigh incomprehensible text on recycled paper that they use more for picking up pet droppings and swatting spiders than anything else related to truly understanding the world.

Or maybe they won't even know about this dead teenage stranger that nobody even cares about. Not everyone reads the papers.

(A pity, that. More people would have picked up on the fact that Kira wasn't the only one they needed to love/fear/hate/vilify/adore. Ginta's murderer is so much worse — or _better_ , words are such tricky things — than Kira.)

The few people who do end up staring at Ginta's name on the obituaries for more than half a second would just blink and think, well, shit happens, and sometimes it happens when you least expect it to. And that, they would say, is _that_.

(It's the truth, in a way. Ginta _was_ just a coincidental victim of an unfortunate circumstance that could have happened to anyone — anyone at all — only it happened to _him_. It's the truth, but at the same time it isn't.)

Things such as "significance" and "mystery" and "curiosity" are just like all words in that they are subjective, even quantifiably more so than their rather clinical counterparts: "purport," "conundrum" and "inquisitiveness." No two people share the exactly the same curiosities, find the same things mysterious, or see the same things as significant. There is common ground, of course, as humans are similar enough in their make up that they cannot be too different from one another, and yet they are different enough to be unique.

Though if this statement is twisted a certain way, viewed at just the right angle, one would realize that they are all of them equally unique so as to be generic.

But that is neither here nor there. Humanity is not the subject here.

Ginta's killer considers himself... well, not quite _above_ humanity (he's not egotistical enough to think that), but not quite _within_ it either. Rather he sees himself beside it; a silent observer who offers just the appropriate amount of interaction so as to not be viewed by it as alien, and yet is distant enough to actually be apart from it all. He is a minimally invasive entity that can somehow touch the wet clay that is humanity without altering its form.

Until he changes its mold irreparably.

But that's another story for later.

They would eventually call him The Impressionist. And to those with the appropriately — or _inappropriately_ , as the case may be — macabre disposition, the reference would be obvious, readily apparent in its inexplicability. The Impressionist's works don't quite explain themselves so much as they just _exist_ the way they do — in their utterly unforgettable and thought-provoking ways, able to evoke such horror with each splatter of congealing blood, each dollop of gray matter.

His story doesn't begin with Hirano Ginta though, as he would have you believe. It starts years before the unlucky boy's demise. It begins before The Impressionist found and used a leather-bound notebook named— yes, _obviously_ — "Death Note." Before he established his drug cartels and multibillion-Yen businesses as an eleven-year-old. His story is a bit complicated and messed up, and in a way it's the kind of bullshit that people don't want to hear or read about, because who wants to start a story at its ending? Stories are supposed to make sense, supposed to start at the beginning, supposed to finish at the end. It's what makes stories appeal to the human mind; they resemble reality enough to be understood, enough for the reader to inject himself-herself into whichever character in whatever tale.

Which can't be said for his story.

Because his "reality" is different. His "reality" is complete, unadulterated horse shit.

So his story begins at the ending.

Well, _her_ story, really. The Impressionist was never a _he_. Even before the end that was the beginning, even after the beginning that was the end, she has always been a she. But does that really matter when nobody knows who The Impressionist is, and nobody ever would?

* * *

 _"Hey, Aki, if a tree falls in a forest and there is nobody there to hear it, what sound does it make?"_

 _"Oh, Rei. Obviously there is no tree, and there is no forest, until we see and hear it ourselves. Reality is what_ you _see and hear and feel, and reality is what_ I _see and hear and feel. And if you see a forest where I see Shibuya, then that's just because reality's bullshit."_

* * *

 **A/N: I am back! Sorry I took forever to update this little baby, my writing muse just escaped me (for, like, MONTHS). I'm sure you all know what I'm talking about. Two words, beginning with a W and a B. Anyway, I'm not even sure if my writing mood is here to stay, it tends to run away a lot. Thanks again to my reviewers and favoriters and followers (and readers, in general). Feedback of any kind keeps me going.**


	3. Intermission: The Jester

.

 **THREE**

 **Intermission: The Jester**

ooOoo

The name catches on like a gasoline fire on a haystack during a dry summer day.

The Impressionist quite honestly doesn't give a shit. Names are tricky things, funny little nonsensical syllables amalgamated into something that so desperately tries to mean something - anything - only upon close scrutiny to end up meaning nothing at all. To him, that is. Humans find meaning in every little nuance of reality (bullshit), he so distantly notes.

Tree. Mountain. Love. Beauty. Strife. Happiness. Life. Death. Monster. Abomination. All random sound-salads that try to define the essence of reality's parts. But how does one go about defining parts of something ever-changing? How could a few syllables stuck in time possibly explain parts of that which is never the same thing twice?

Well, if all else fails, he supposes the word "bullshit" will suffice. In all its translations.

He slowly drags the blade across the vellum-like paper, and cuts out a small rectangle from it. His movements are precise and unrepentant, his hand not at all wavering from its appointed task.

He raises the small paper cut-out with his gloved hands and scrutinizes it.

"You will make for a very interesting project," he murmurs.

Then with ruthless efficiency, the Impressionist proceeds to make more cut-outs. And effectively unleashes chaos into the world.

Not that it knows that just yet.

He recalls his newly-earned epithet, and smiles.

They call him The Impressionist.

And in doing so, utterly fail at defining his essence.

What he is, if he is anything at all, is Chaos.

ooOoo

Shun knows, deep in his bones, that Hoshino Akira is something else. Something other.

He says not a word of it though, and goes about his business as if having an eleven-year-old for a boss is nothing strange. Mou, even Kenji-dono knew that something was strange with the girl, though the man only ever showed it by acting like a depraved pedophile about it.

Akira-hime this, Akira-hime that. Oh, does Akira hime-sama not look absolutely ravishing in that cute little ruffly and pink jailbait dress? It was actually quite disturbing, even with Shun's admittedly intimate relationship with all things depraved and insane.

He has no idea how Kenji-dono does it. Shun can't imagine himself fawning over a monster the same way his superior does.

Not for the first time, Shun ponders the (nonexistent) survival instincts of Sakurazawa Kenji.

And the (nonexistent) humanity of Hoshino Akira.

Shun never gives any indication that Akira-sama terrifies the crap out of him though, and only ever looks at her with the respect one would normally give their (definitely not prepubescent) bosses.

"Matsuda-san."

Not that it ever seems to fool the girl, he thinks bitterly to himself, as he schools his expression to one of mindless deference.

"Hai, Akira-sama."

Hoshino Akira sits on the neon-green swivel chair as if she belonged there - alright, so she might've had the chair custom-made, and maybe she does actually belong there because it was made specifically for her - looking for all the world like a kid playing "pretend to be daddy".

Oh, shit! Shun castigates himself. Dont think about little child-demons. Think about puppies and... and natto.

Yes. Natto. How something could smell like shit and taste like heaven, he has no idea. Some things are to remain mysteries.

He doesn't know if Akira-sama can read thoughts, and he honestly doesnt want to know, but it can't hurt to be safe.

Akira-sama studies him with her black, beady, glacial eyes, and Shun very nearly sweats under the scrutiny. "...I need these scattered all across the country. To random addresses without surveillance cameras. Maximum stealth applies, as per usual. I want it done within the week if possible, though I'm amenable to an extension if not."

She gestures to a two-foot tall stack of manila envelopes at the edge of her desk. They were seemingly empty, he ponders as he tests each envelope's weight in his arms, but they were each of them completely sealed shut.

He is curious, more than he has ever been in his entire twenty-nine years of existence, but knows better than to ask Akira-sama anything.

"Within the week," Shun absently repeats with a nod. He'd run his feet raw to finish the task within the desired period, of-fucking-course. One did not delay with the Jou-sama's orders. Not unless one wanted to become minced meat onigiri filling. And Shun did not want to be onigiri-filling. He doesn't even like onigiri. "Of course, Akira-sa-Wait, _what_?"

 _Across the freakin country?!_

"Across the country," she calmly reiterates for his benefit, not bothering to act condescending about it because, well, she never needed to act that way with him, he's always been quite healthily terrified of her. She turns her fathomless black eyes to the papers splayed across her polished Sakura-wood desk, which Shun would bet his bottom Yen had been Kenji-dono's gift for her. Sakura wood in testament of his Sakurazawa boner for her or something equally depraved. Shun subtly relaxes upon feeling her attention leave him. "Within the week," she softly reminds as an afterthought. "If possible."

 _No need to tell me twice, Akuma jou-sama_ , he mentally retorts. _I guess I'll just have to start working miracles._

ooOoo

She figures there must be something terribly wrong with her.

That, or there is something terribly wrong with the world.

All around her, people are celebrating the death of James "Jester" Kramer; debonair serial killer and the cause of nearly two hundred deaths in the past four years. She is relatively sure that the rest of the country is out celebrating as well, because apparently depraved psychopaths being brought to "justice" seems to be something to hop for joy over. But she doesn't get it. To her, the gaiety and joie de vivre seems forced and necessary and grating. And pointless. People are throwing themselves into parties with such determined abandon, smiling and laughing and joking around so hard as if it would win them some prize. Every so often, someone would walk up to the memorial on the wall, their expression sombre and full of grief. They would softly place a finger on some name on it, and quickly return to the party with an almost angry vengeance.

Frankly, it surprises her that all that forced cheer hasn't tired them out yet. It would've exhausted her.

"Need a light?"

Stella Starr - and she is completely aware how dumb her name sounds, it's only her own damn name after all - eyes the man standing next to her, his whiskey eyes shining, lips tilted in a smirk, silver Zippo on the ready. She flinches at the sight of the lighter, then covers it up with seeming surprise at the man's presence.

"Jesse," she murmurs, as if nothing about his presence was unusual at all. She fingers her cigarette with an almost anxious air. "It's been a while."

"Too right," the man acquiesces as he sits next to her. "You probably thought I'd died or something. It has been, what, three, going on four years? Too long, I'd say."

She frowns.

 _Not nearly long enough,_ she mentally quips.

"Ah, don't do that thing with your face, love!" Jesse chides. "I know you missed me!"

She grabs the lighter from his hand, lights up her cancer stick, and lets out a pleasure-filled sigh. "What brings you here?"

"The party, of course," Jesse replies. "Unlike some people, I actually enjoy parties."

"I would enjoy it more if it actually makes sense," she mutters blankly.

 _If what they were celebrating wasn't..._

"No, you wouldn't."

Stella Starr - born Hoshino Akira - turns to the man she hates, and loves, the most. The man who ruined her and built her up, only to ruin her again because it was _fun_ , and _what is life without fun?_

There was a reason Jesse Tergann was known as the Jester, after all.

And a reason why Stella Starr didn't like "fun" things very much.

ooOoo

 **A/N: Omg med school is killing me. Between resuscitating babies (I'm now on my Pediatrics rotation) and waiting for women to pop their babies out already because most of the time it's like: "HOLY SHIT IT'S LIKE 2AM AND YOU'VE BEEN IN LABOR FOR LIKE TEN MILLION YEARS WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR, THE EXTINCTION OF MANKIND?"**

 **Again, not much makes sense in this chapter, you'll realize. Akira, true to form, is such a fucker in that I already have her past, present and future all planned out and shit, but since she's such an unreliable informant I actually need to muck shit up. Which. Well, it's not as easy as just mindfucking with you awesome readers, lemme tell you.**

 **Also, please forgive any and all typos. I kinda typed all this on my shitty-ass phone, so there.**

 **Anyway, HOLY WOW MY MUSE IS BACK! Expect another chapter within the month.**

 **Tell me what you think! Reviews are love!**


End file.
